


Conductor Of Light

by Talizora



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BAMF John Watson, BAMF Sherlock, Brief mentions of torture, Dirty Talk, Elemental Magic, Happy Ending, HiatuStory June Challenge, Imprisonment, John Swears A Lot, John flirts at the worst times, Love at First Sight, M/M, Revenge, Some Humor, brief mentions of experiments on humans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-11-16 01:31:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11243505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talizora/pseuds/Talizora
Summary: Sherlock meets John for the first time when he breaks him out of prison while he’s running around Europe taking down Moriarty’s network. But John has a secret, which makes him very, very valuable and James Moriarty will do anything to get his asset back.





	Conductor Of Light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Courageous_Dreamer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Courageous_Dreamer/gifts).



> Written for [H.I.A.T.U.S. June Challenge](https://hiatustory.tumblr.com/post/160953685308/junes-theme-is-elemental-magic) "Elemental Magic AU" and as a birthday present for my beautiful muse [@musing-out-loud](https://musing-out-loud.tumblr.com/). Happy Birthday! Thank you for texting me at all hours of the day and night as I struggled to write!

_“Give me one good reason why I should help you win your little power play Mycroft.”_

_“I can give you many, brother dear. But I believe the most effective would be if you do this for me. Your debt will be considered paid in full.”_

Sherlock sighed heavily, his breath misting densely in the freezing air. Now wasn’t the time to relive that particular conversation with his brother. It was the reason why he was currently freezing his balls off high up in the mountains of the Alps, but it wouldn’t help him now. Pulling his heavy cloak about him tighter, Sherlock refocused and began to make his way along the wall of the remote featureless concrete facility. His goal was to find the back entrance and make his way down to the basement.

The sparse intel Mycroft's minions at MI6 had been able to gather had at least proven to be true, the problem was they were always parts of a whole. Often key bit's of information would be missed or simply not exist until it was too late and Sherlock had to deal with the fallout. This new criminal Mycroft was currently battling wasn’t their usual fair. He was a true mastermind, a proper baddie for Sherlock to slay. He called himself ‘The Spider’ the man at the center of a criminal web.

James Moriarty.

As much as Moriarty called himself a genius, it seemed he was no match for Sherlock Holmes. The detective had already spent the last three months tracking down and dismantling the so-called ‘criminal web’ Moriarty had built. So far, it appeared that he’d done so undetected. If Sherlock had his way Moriarty wouldn’t know he was onto him until he was snapping the handcuffs around his wrists.

The stairs were the same dull grey, unpainted concrete as the rest of the building. Sherlock was glad to see the string of exposed light globes lining the ceiling as it sloped downwards into the mountain. The door clicked shut behind him with a high echoing sound. He paused for a moment to listen, aware the sound may draw the attention of any dim-witted guards who may be nearby.

Shaking some of the melting snow from his coat, Sherlock began his decent down the stairs. It felt further than the blueprints he’d memorised had made them seem, but when he reached the tee junction at the bottom he felt a small pool of relief grow in his gut. At least the schematics of the building didn’t appear to be one of those missing bits of information.

Turning to the left Sherlock continued making his way quietly into the biggest room, it was a laboratory not dissimilar to those he’d seen at Baskerville. The biggest difference Sherlock was quick to notice, being that almost eighty percent of the room was dominated by an enormous glass cell. The glass looked frosted, a highly opaque milky white that was impossible to see through.  There was a steel panel connected to one side of the cell, it’s red, blue, green and amber LED light’s blinking rhythmically.

Sherlock swept his gaze around the empty room, it seemed all too suspicious that he’d not met with a single person yet. It couldn’t possibly be this easy, could it? The detective fingered the bars of C4 he had hidden away inside his deep pockets. If there was no one around, he could set the charges, leave and detonate the explosives. Moriarty's men would simply return to the smoking ruins of their facility and wonder what had happened.

However, the blinking panel appeared too much to resist. Curiosity had always been one of Sherlock’s greatest weaknesses. With a few quick strides, he made his way over to the lights and observed the panel closely. There were oily deposits on most of the buttons from repetitive use by ungloved fingers. _Amateurs_. Seemingly at random amongst the many buttons, were sliders similar to the kind you’d mind on DJ equipment. Sherlock briefly wondered if the scientist's had repurposed a mixer unit for the control panel.

The panel had what looked like several climate control features, one digital panel displayed the temperature, humidity and oxygen levels currently inside the cell. Perhaps Moriarty had some priceless artwork or archaeological items hidden away in a controlled environment? Sherlock blinked in confusion at the numbers as he read them: 93% humidity, 15% oxygen, 5ºC. Those were certainly not ideal conditions to keep antiquities under.

One of the sliders was currently set to ‘opaque’. Sherlock looked up from the control panel to the milky glass, his hand moved automatically, pushing the slider to the ‘clear’ setting. Within seconds the white glass turned transparent and revealed a room similar to a prison cell. The cell wasn’t empty. A man was lying with his back facing Sherlock on the small bed inside. He was tanned, with short blond hair, his back unclothed, lightly muscled and covered in scars. The silver lines crisscrossed over each other and almost appeared to glitter silver in the harsh artificial light illuminating the cell.

For a moment, Sherlock just watched the man’s chest expand and fall with each breath. Then his eyes darted over and over the man's back, this time taking in fine detail and reading the stranger’s past like an open book. The scars appeared to have originated from many different wounds, some looked like lashes caused by whipping, others looked like incisions from a sharp blade. There was a large starburst looking scar that Sherlock deduced would have been caused by an exit wound from a large calibre bullet. The man was obviously some kind of prisoner and had been for some time. Sherlock glanced back down at the panel and pressed his finger to the intercom button.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

The man’s back tensed, then he rolled over to face the detective and Sherlock could not stop himself from gasping aloud. The prisoner's eyes were glowing, flickering and sparking like hot embers at the heart of a fire. It should be impossible, but Sherlock couldn’t deny what he was seeing with his own eyes. The man in the cell frowned at him, then let his gaze travel slowly, deliberately around the room before returning back.

“Who are you?” His voice was rough, harsh from disuse Sherlock supposed.

“I’m with MI6, that’s all you need to know right now.” Sherlock couldn’t take his eyes off the strange man, the way his muscles pulled and tensed like he was readying himself for a fight. Sherlock had known from the first glance that the man had been a soldier, but to see that he’d lost none of the awareness of his body. The deadly way he carried himself, was heady. Now was not the time for Sherlock’s all-consuming military kink to make an appearance. He needed to focus.

“How did you know about Afghanistan?”

The clatter of footsteps growing louder and louder behind him pulled Sherlock’s focus away from the captivating man. The scientist's and guns for hire who manned this laboratory had obviously returned from wherever they’d been. He needed to set the charges and get out. Now.

“I’m planning on blowing up this facility, would you like to come with me?”

“Oh god, yes.”

Sherlock grinned at the man and pushed the largest red button on the panel. The moment it was depressed all hell seemed to break loose. The lab, now bathed in bright red flashing lights filled with the sound of alarms and a cacophony of shouting began to echo down the hallway into the lab. All of this, however, did not stop Sherlock from noticing the way the stranger stepped out of his cell and seemed to savour the moment his bare feet passed over the threshold, onto the cold concrete floor. The way the former prisoner took a deep, grounding breath, that filled his chest and seemed designed to show off his lightly defined chest and stomach made Sherlock’s mouth go dry.

The thick black smoke that trailed out of the stranger's mouth as he released his breath caused Sherlock to forget himself again. The detective was captivated, watching the peculiar shirtless man make his way across the room to a steel cabinet, ripping the doors off their hinges. His powerful arms bulging, pulling the silver scars that cover his entire body tight across his skin.

It’s not until the man throws Sherlock a freshly loaded shotgun - which the detective reflexively catches - that he remembers where he is and that the two of them are going to have to fight their way out. The first guard comes running into the room, his loud slapping footsteps cause Sherlock to turn towards the sound and fix his awkward hold on the gun in his hands.

Strangely the guard is carrying a large fire extinguisher instead of his own weapon. Sherlock frowns in confusion for a moment before watching the henchmen take a burst of machine gunfire to the chest and collapse to the floor. Sherlock’s strange companion had apparently chosen a semi-automatic rifle for himself. The next three guards all meet the same fate as their predecessor, the fourth takes a hit from Sherlock’s shotgun. The spray catches the dropped extinguishers, the sound of the canisters exploding makes Sherlock’s ears ring. The room is quickly filled with a thick powdery smoke that makes it impossible for the henchmen to see Sherlock darting around and placing his C4 charges.

Sherlock grabs his companion's arm and pulls him from the room, the man uses the end of his gun to knock out a guard as they round the corner and take the stairs two at a time back up to ground level.  The two men run as fast as they’re able across the snow and into the surrounding forest. Putting as much distance as possible between them and the facility. Sherlock had set the timer for five minutes, but even so, as they run together darting between trees and trying not to slip on the ice five minutes seemed too long.

If one of the scientist's or guards escaped they would report Sherlock to Moriarty and his three-month streak of going unnoticed would be broken. His job of dismantling the web would become so much harder.

“This way!” Sherlock called over his shoulder, darting down a small hill. “My cabin is to the east.”

“How long until-” The explosion caught them both off guard, knocking them off their feet. “Christ! How much did you fucking use?”

“Enough.” Sherlock shrugged. He and the glowing eyed stranger stared at one another for a moment as they lay where they’d been thrown. It seemed the whole series of events had suddenly caught up with them both and they burst into hysterical laughter.

“That was the most ridiculous thing, I’ve ever done.”

“And you invaded Afghanistan.” They both roared with a new wave of laughter, Sherlock grinned and held out his hand. “The name’s Sherlock Holmes.”

“John Watson.”

* * *

Sherlock pushed open the cabin door with his shoulder. The wood had begun to swell with water as it dripped down from the roof in the afternoon sun. This particular safe house Mycroft had arranged for him wasn’t exactly five-star accommodation, but it was warm (when you had a fire going) and the roof didn’t leak when it rained.

“Take a seat John, I’ll see about finding you some warm clothes. If you know how to start a fire, please do so. I’d rather not play nursemaid for the next week if you happen to catch pneumonia.” Sherlock waved his hand towards the large cast iron wood heater on the other side of the cabin. “There’s flint, sticks and dried grass in that box.”

John nodded and made his way over to the box, busying himself with setting up the wood to begin the fire. Sherlock shucked off his wet coat, hung it on the back of the door and went to rummage through the vacuum-packed bundles of emergency clothing that Mycroft had thoughtfully stockpiled for him. Ripping open one of the bags Sherlock pulled out a few jumpers, undershirts, pants, jeans and socks. The sizes weren’t going to be ideal for John’s smaller, stockier frame but they’d at least prevent the man from freezing to death.

The whoosh and crackle of the fire catching pulls Sherlock's attention back to his new companion. There is a thick long silver scar that Sherlock hadn’t noticed before, that starts up under John’s armpit and extends the length of his torso, disappearing under the band of his white elastic trousers. On both sides of the scar are little white dots, the wound must have been surgically stapled closed. Why was John covered in scars? Why was he being held prisoner in the Alps? What did Moriarty need him for?

“You can wear these, they won’t fit obviously. But it’s better than what you’ve got.”

“Thank you,” John says, joining Sherlock by the cabins only bed where he’d thrown the clothes. “Not just for this, either. Thank you, Sherlock. You might not know it, but I think. Yeah. I think you might have saved my life today.”

“How long?”

“Long enough.”

Sherlock waited for John to continue, but he didn’t, he simply grabbed a long sleeved shirt from the pile and pulled it over his head. He even had scars on his hands, white shiny lines following along where his tendons would be under the skin. Sherlock shuddered, maybe it was better he didn’t know what had happened. Surely those scars hadn’t been caused by his deployment to Afghanistan, no Sherlock wasn’t that naive. He knew explorative dissection incisions when he saw them.

“Tea?”

“I’d love a cuppa. Christ, I can’t even remember the last time I had one.” John was examining two woollen jumpers, one a white cable-knit design, the other a beautiful dark blue cashmere. Sherlock hoped he would choose the latter, but when he turned back after setting the now full kettle on the hob and turning the burner on John was wearing the white one. Shame.

“I’m afraid I don’t have any milk, do you take sugar?”

“Yes, I like it black anyway. Just half a teaspoon would be perfect.”

Sherlock smiled and glanced back at John, “We take it the same then. Shame I don’t have a slice of lemon. But, I suppose-” Sherlock’s mouth was suddenly dry, what had he been saying again? He wasn’t sure, more importantly, John had just slipped off his white linen trousers. Sherlock could see his bare arse, peeping out from below the horrible cable-knit jumper. _Oh!_ Sherlock watches in awe as John leant over the bed to reach for some y-fronts and a pair of dark charcoal wash jeans. “Hmmff…” Sherlock’s mouth says without his permission.

John slipped the red y-fronts over his legs and glanced over at Sherlock. His eyes looked almost reflective in the dim light of the cabin, glowing and shimmering like a cats. “You didn’t burn yourself on that kettle did you, Sherlock?.”

“Of course not, I was uh, well…”

> _...If you see me comin' your way;_  
>  _Better give me plenty space;_  
>  _If I tell you that I'm hungry;_  
>  _Then won't you feed my face_  
>  _Because I'm fat, I'm fat, sha mone  
>  _ _(Fat, fat, really really fat)_  
>  You know I'm fat, I'm fat, you know it…

“Is that… Weird Al?” John asked, looking beyond puzzled.

“Yes. It’s my brother. Excuse me for a moment.” Sherlock mentally thanked his brother for his impeccable timing, pulled out his phone which was still playing Mycroft’s personalised ringtone and swiped his finger over the screen to answer. “Mikey, my love. Have I told you how much I hate puppies?”

“I don’t believe you have, Billy-boy. Please don’t make me spill my coffee.”

Sherlock sighed and just listened to his brother breath for a moment. As annoying as Sherlock found his brother to be, Mycroft’s sporadic phone calls had always helped keep Sherlock grounded. “Did anyone escape?”

“Not that I’ve been made aware of. It would seem congratulations are in order. This makes five successful solo missions, Sherlock. Are you sure you won’t consider taking on a more permanent role?”

As he listened to Mycroft talk, Sherlock reached for the now whistling kettle. “I’m not a pawn for you to move around your chessboard Mycroft. Once this is over my debt to you is finished, no more calling in little favours big brother.”

John was watching him carefully, his head tilted slightly. Obviously listening to their conversation closely. He’d put on the jeans now, which Sherlock had to admit was just a _little bit_ heartbreaking. He would need to inform his brother about his new companion, but it wasn't clear yet how much he could trust John. Sherlock’s eyes met John’s and they continued to stare at each other.

“...potential to help your country is substantial, Sherlock.”

“Sorry, brother. You already know what my answer is going to be. What you will be interested in, however, is that I may have found a source for insider information on Moriarty’s network.” Sherlock tilted his head in question, still holding John’s gaze. “If my source is willing to give up that information?”

John nodded.

“Perfect. Mycroft I’ll be in touch, let me know if anything urgent comes up.”

“Be careful, brother mine.” Sherlock ended the call with a quick swipe over the touchscreen.

“So your brother works for MI6 too?” John asked sounding casual, his body relaxed as he pulled out the only other chair at the small square table and took a seat.

Sherlock picked up the two cups of tea he had been preparing and placed one down in front of his guest. Taking the other seat with a sigh, Sherlock prepared himself for a long conversation. “Yes, he does. My apologies John, I had wanted to ask for your help officially, however, Mycroft's call forced my hand. Thank you for offering information.”

“Not sure what good it will be, don’t know much, to be honest. Only what I overheard, or what I learned while I was stuck in that cell.” John shrugged, his scarred hands coming to rest on the wooden table in front of him.

“Anything you can tell me, no matter how small in detail could be instrumental in bringing Moriarty to justice. I’m a detective, it’s my job to connect the dots and make deductions. I can’t do so without all the facts. Please, start at the beginning and I’ll try not to interrupt.” Sherlock took a small sip of his hot tea and watched John as he settled more comfortably into his seat.

“The base you blew up wasn’t just some laboratory. That was just a front. Moriarty was using the facility to trade and sell weapons. Not just guns, bombs and ammo but the real shady stuff too. Chemical weapons, poisons, stuff like that.” John’s focus slipped from Sherlock down to his cup. He ran his fingers over the rim, down the handle and back. “They kept me locked up, of course. But I heard ‘em talking when they got lazy with the intercom. Russians, Taliban, North Koreans, you name it. Groups of them were paraded through, usually with Moriarty. I think he liked showing off his armoury.”

“He threatened a few of them, the whole ‘you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours’ spiel. I guess he thought some of them were thinking of taking the goods and running. Moriarty is a real arsehole, a proper bloodthirsty warmongerer. He wasn’t just playing with those terrorists for entertainment or money.” John gripped his cup firmly. “He likes it, it makes him happy. Knowing what those weapons will do in those hands. Christ, I did three tours in Afghanistan. I know where those guns end up and I had to watch him hand them over.”

Sherlock reached out to touch John’s shoulder softly, he was warm and Sherlock felt a shiver travel up his arm at the soft feeling of the wool. His hands were cold and John felt like a perfectly heated water bottle. “I’m trying to stop him, Mycroft has been building up evidence against him for years. We’re so close now, to ending his little game. We just need to find and take down his network. Moriarty isn’t stupid. He’s got people who can take over if he’s killed or arrested. We need to get rid of them first, then cut off the head. Once we do that his web will collapse into itself.”

“You’ll be looking for the Moran twins then.”

Sherlock frowned, he’d not heard of these twins before. “Who are they?”

John chuckled and took a long, deep sip of his tea. “Sebastian and Rosamund Moran. They’re mercenaries, and Moriarty's right and left-hand men so to speak. Sebastian was a Major in the Army until he was dishonourably discharged, his sister Rosamund is an assassin. Seb was caught selling ammunition, _our_ ammunition to the Taliban. No honour amongst thieves I guess?” John laughed humorlessly. “Fuck, I served my last tour with him, played cards together, got drunk together and then what? That was a shitty day for all of us when we found out.”

“So they send a couple of guys to Seb’s bunk to arrest him, but someone must have given him a heads up because he was ready. He killed them and ran off into the hills. That was the last I saw of him until I took a sniper round to the chest.” John rubbed at his left shoulder, where Sherlock knew the matching exit wound could be found on his back.

“Woke up strapped to a table, surrounded by fucking terrorists. They were all yelling at each other, then like a bloody ghost Sebastian appears and who does he bring with him? Your man, Moriarty. They tried to sell me some bullshit story about how I should join them, I told them to fuck off. Ended up in my own private little POW camp, then you found me. ”

Sherlock knew there had to be more to the story, it didn’t make sense. Why would Moriarty keep John locked up? He was just a soldier, there were plenty of them in the world. His friendship with Sebastian could be the reason why they’d spared his life, but Sherlock felt that was unlikely. No, John was hiding something.

“What about Rosamund?” Sherlock asked, “You mentioned she was Sebastian's twin. How did you find out about her?” John’s body language changed abruptly at the mention of the assassin. He looked, ashamed? Guilty? Angry? Sherlock wasn’t sure.

“I met Rosamund on leave, I tagged along with Seb one day when he was going to meet up with his sister. I knew right away she had some kind of military training, but at the time I didn’t know what. We hit it off, she’s pretty, I was lonely.” John shrugged. “I’m not proud of it now, bloody regret it if I’m being honest. But the past is the past, we dated for a few months on and off while I was on tour. She would meet up with us occasionally, in hindsight I think she must have been carrying messages from Moriarty to Seb and I was the cover. She visited me, tried to convince me after being locked up for months to join them. Told me I could be an assassin like her. Bullshit.”

“Thank you, John. Is there anything else? Any detail you’ve left out. No matter how small or insignificant you think it might be.” Sherlock watched his companion carefully, his previously relaxed sitting position had changed throughout his story but he looked guarded now. Definitely hiding something.

“No, I don’t think so. Nothing that comes to mind anyways. If I think of anything else I’ll let you know.” John’s eyes glittered and sparkled in the darkening cabin, it was getting late.

“I’ll inform Mycroft, we’ll need to track down Sebastian and Rosamund first. You should get some sleep. Take the bed, I’ll wake you in a few hours and we’ll switch. Better that one of us is awake in case we’re discovered.” Sherlock stood from the table and picked up their now empty mugs, rinsing and cleaning them quickly in the sink before setting them to dry.

“Glad I could help, seriously. I want to help you. Not just for revenge, either. They need to be stopped, what they’re doing isn’t right.” John had moved from his chair and was now standing very close to Sherlock. His eyes blazed, his body seemed to almost glow, he looked powerful and capable of anything. Sherlock wanted to trust him, he wanted to _have_ him. He wanted this strong, scarred, odd stranger to kiss him. It was silly and cliche and Sherlock needed to go cool off outside and left off some steam before he did something stupid like fall to his knees and open John’s jeans with his teeth.

“I know,” Sherlock reached out and rested his hand softly on John’s shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Sleep, John. I’m going to step outside for a cigarette and bring Mycroft up to date. There is a bathroom through that door.”

* * *

John watched his tall saviour retreat outside, slipping on his heavy coat as he pressed the cabin door closed behind him. For a moment John just stood there, alone in the small room, without being watched. Without having to control his breathing, without having to channel energy through his body to keep warm. John wasn’t sure how long he’d been locked up, he’d need to ask Sherlock the date. He wanted to remember it, celebrate it in future like a birthday.

“Huh…” John huffed to himself and felt his entire body relax. He was out. He was free, no more scientist's to wake him at odd hours. No more experiments, no more interrogations. Sherlock had saved his life.

John made his way over to the door Sherlock had pointed out. He wanted to clean his teeth desperately. The guards hadn’t allowed him anything that could be considered a weapon and apparently a toothbrush classified as one. Seeing the two green plastic toothbrushes sitting next to the sink was like witnessing another miracle. John put far too much toothpaste on the brush and then shoved it into his mouth. It was like heaven.

The minty flavour burst to life on his tongue, the feeling of the bristles rubbing over his teeth was beyond anything he’d ever felt. John moaned happily when he moved to brush the other side of his mouth, his tongue running over the side he’d just cleaned. His teeth felt smooth! He’d forgotten how amazing it felt to have clean teeth.

Spitting out some of the foam from the toothpaste, John glanced up at himself in the mirror. Christ, he looked like he’d been in prison. The bags under his eyes were more prominent than they’d ever been, he had more wrinkles than the last time he’d seen his own face. And the scars that carried up from his chest onto his neck shimmered a dull silver in the light. He might have been free from Moriarty, but he’d never be able to forget his time under that madman's control.

John’s eyes met his own in his reflections, his eyes were glowing. Like fire. “Fuck!” John shouted at himself, how long had they been glowing? Had Sherlock noticed? He hadn’t said anything. “Shit.” John stared into his own eyes, watching the way they sparkled and glittered like hot embers. He needed to get control again, push the energy down.

He was safe now, warm, able to breathe. He didn’t need to channel, he needed to let go. He needed to look normal, or Sherlock wouldn’t have a reason to hand him over and be experimented on. He couldn’t let that happen _ever_ again. John rinsed his mouth out and took several deep gulps of water from the tap. Then he settled himself and concentrated inwards. Letting the flow of power weaken inside himself, allowing the energy to dwindle off until it was almost nothing.

John’s eyes returned to their deep blue in his reflection. He’d need to remember not to reach for the power constantly. He couldn’t risk Sherlock finding out about him, he wasn’t sure yet how much he could trust the tall man. John made his way back to the main room of the cabin and over to the bed, pulling back the covers and settling himself down.

It was so strange, laying there with blankets, staring up at a ceiling that wasn’t white. It was almost like a dream, one which John hoped he’d never wake up from. As John drifted off to that strange place between sleeping and being awake it suddenly dawned on him. What if this was all a dream? What if he woke up, back in his glass prison. What if he woke up on the scientist's operating table? Perhaps they had just drugged him again, and were digging around in his flesh trying to find the source of his power?

He didn’t want to wake up if that was true. If he was still back at that featureless grey facility. If he’d never met Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. Christ, he was beautiful...

* * *

John was dreaming. He was back on the battlefield, trying to drag one of his squadmates under cover. He needed to put a tourniquet on the man's leg before he bled to death. There was a soft thunk on John’s right, one of the Taliban soldiers had thrown a grenade. Thinking quickly, John picked it up and threw it back over the car he’d hid behind. It exploded before it hit the ground on the other side, shattering the windows and jolting the car.

John needed to find another hiding place, he pressed down on the man’s leg more firmly as he glanced down at his patient. The man’s eyes were blank, staring up at the blue, cloudless sky, John hadn’t been fast enough. It took more effort than John would like to admit to stop pressing onto the man’s leg. It was useless now, John’s skills would be needed elsewhere, he needed to focus.

“Watson!” A voice called behind John, the sound of his name jolted John from his frozen position over his, now deceased patient. John quickly made a run across the open space between the car and the house the rest of his unit had taken shelter in.

John’s brain did an automatic head count. There were only four of them left, including himself. He’d watched almost all of his unit die today. The reality of the situation they were in suddenly hit John with force. They needed to retreat immediately before the house was overrun by the enemy. “Back door!” John shouted over the crack of gunfire and the popping of bullets hitting the walls of their sanctuary.

His men followed the order without hesitation, quickly finding and breaking down the back door. The four men spared a moment to check their route was clear before bolting out into the open. John knew this manoeuvre probably wouldn’t work. They’d need to run, without being seen, across the valley to rendezvous with their extraction helicopter. It was a long shot, but it was better than sitting in that house and waiting to die.

The first shot went wide and hit the ground on John’s left, right by his feet.

“Sniper! Sniper! Sniper!”

The second shot found its mark through the man running behind John. He screamed, but John couldn’t stop. He had to keep running. If he tried to help the sniper would just shoot him, there wasn’t any point. The remaining three men started to weave left and right, trying to make it harder for the sniper to get a clear shot. It didn’t work.

The third shot doesn’t come from the sniper instead, it comes as a burst of machine gun fire from a Taliban soldier that was running after them. The spray went wide, but John felt one bullet graze his right arm. Enough was enough. It was time to fight fire with literal fire.

“Keep running! I’ll try to draw his attention away from you!” John shouted.

“Watson! You lunatic, you’ll be killed!”

“We’re being picked off, at this rate, we’ll all be dead. Just shut up and do as I say! That’s an order!”

Skidding on the sand John turned around and faced his attackers. With a deep breath, he did something he’d sworn to himself never to do. Use his powers to hurt, to kill. John pulled on the energy within him, he could feel his skin heating up, the palms of his hands getting hotter and hotter. He needed to make this shot count. Perhaps the sniper would be too confused watching him to shoot, maybe it would buy his men enough time to make it to safety.

For the second time that day, John wasn’t fast enough. The bullet from the sniper hits its mark, slamming into his left shoulder and bursting out through his back. The force of the bullet shoved John backwards, then there was just pain. John screamed, and his whole body seemed to scream along with him. Blindly John reached out for the only thing that could possibly help him.

Fire.

* * *

Sherlock cupped his hands around the cigarette in his mouth, while he’d been inside the cabin with John a strong wind had started up. Using his hands and a wind break Sherlock managed to light his cigarette and took a long drag on it. The warm smoke tickled his throat and filled his lungs, sighing happily Sherlock enjoyed the feeling of scratching that particular itch. With a flick of his wrist, Sherlock returned his lighter to his pocket and turned away from the wind.

His other hand fingered his iPhone. He’d told John he was planning on calling Mycroft and informing him about John’s existence, but the truth was Sherlock wasn’t sure if that would be such a good idea. A particularly cold gust of wind caused him to shiver, he couldn’t wait to get back home. He missed London, he missed Baker Street, he even missed Mrs Hudson and Lestrade.

As Sherlock shifted on the cabin's doorstep, he felt the wind change directions, blowing warmer air from the south. He glanced over the woods that surrounded their safe house, it was quiet here. At least he didn’t have to put up with idiots like Anderson. He was alone, the way he preferred to be.

But that wasn’t right anymore, he had John now. John Watson, the most confusing man he’d ever met. From his scarred body to his glowing eyes. Sherlock wasn’t sure what to think of him, and yet his libido had obviously been kicked up into high gear. If Sherlock was the sort of man to fuck and run he would. A passion filled night with the ex-soldier before he went off to defeat Moriarty in a blaze or glory.

“Get a grip,” Sherlock muttered to himself, taking his cigarette from his mouth and flicking it out into the snow. He turned away from the white forest and made his way back inside the warm cabin, taking his phone out of his pocket as he did and sending a quick message to his brother.

> _New lead: Rosamund and Sebastian Moran. Send me everything - SH_

As the door thumped closed behind him the wind changed again, bringing heavier snow down onto the tiny cabin.

* * *

It took three months for Mycroft to track down Rosamund Moran for them. She was currently staying in Berlin in preparation to attend a political Gala where several very important dignitaries would be. Mycroft suspected Moriarty had instructed the Assassin to kill off the favourite candidate to be voted in during France’s presidential election next month. It was Sherlock and John’s job to stop Miss Moran.

The night before they where to attend the Gala, Sherlock’s luck finally ran out. It had been John’s turn to keep watch while Sherlock slept. They’d moved into a new safe house a few days before and had fallen quickly into a routine. It was funny how the two men seemed to work seamlessly together like they had been partners together for years. If they'd met under different circumstances Sherlock was sure he would have pursued John romantically.

Or at least hoped that John would ask him out to dinner, he liked Italian, Thai and Chinese. All the same foods that Sherlock enjoyed, when he could be bothered to eat. John laughed at his jokes, even when they were in poor taste or horrendously morbid.  They just worked, in a way Sherlock had never experienced with another human being before. But John was still hiding something from Sherlock.

Their ‘Honeymoon’ phase was brought to a swift end with a phone call. The sound of his phone ringing brought Sherlock out of his deep sleep instantly. The caller ID was puzzling at first… ‘Mr. Sex’ but the phone had been given to Sherlock by Mycroft. It was secured, the only person who called was Mycroft himself or one of his MI6 minions.

The detective answered the call, still groggy from sleep. “Hello?”

“You’ve taken something that doesn’t belong to you.”

Sherlock froze, the cold, soft voice on the other end of the phone could only belong to one person. “Moriarty.” Sherlock greeted. “How wonderful of you to call.”

John, who had been looking over the photos of the dignitaries who would be in attendance at the Gala made eye contact with Sherlock for a moment before getting up and shutting the blinds on all the windows.

“Oh Sherlock, you knew it was only a matter of time before my call. It’s been fun, this little game, but Daddy’s had enough now.”

“Admit it, you had no idea about me until I blew up your facility.”

“No Sherlock, I just didn’t _care_. Not until you took my little Soldier from me. You don’t know Johnny like I do, how could you? _He_ won’t tell you. You should ask me, _ask me, Sherlock_. Ask me why his eyes glow. Ask me why he doesn’t get cold. Ask me. _Ask me._ **ASK ME!** ”

Sherlock was proud of himself for not jumping at the sudden scream, “Why should I trust you to tell the truth?”

Moriarty laughed, “You have no idea, do you? Poor little Sherlock, bumbling around. Doing what Big Brother says, just following orders right? You’re stupid, _so stupid._ Just like all the rest. You should be careful, Sherlock. When you play with fire, you might get burned.”

“I assure you, I am being very, _very_ careful.”

“Oh well, you should have asked me. I would have told you. Back off, my dear. You’re not ready to see how far this rabbit hole goes. You might get lost, little Alice. Cheerio!”

“Catch you, later.”

“No, you won’t!”

* * *

For the first time in John’s life, he was wearing a tuxedo. The collar was stiff, starched beyond belief, the waistcoat was too tight across his chest and the shoes were half a size too small. John supposed it was a bit much to expect Sherlock - MI6 agent extraordinaire - to come up with two bespoke suits in less than twenty-four hours. Still, Sherlock looked like a walking wet dream, which John could only be smug about.

Walking into this Gala with Sherlock on his arm, even if their relationship was part of their cover, was a dream come true. The madman was captivating. John would almost constantly find himself staring at his friend, at his neck, his lips, the curve of his shoulders as he leant over a table or slouched in his chair. At one point John was worried he’d lick his lips raw with the amount he was doing it subconsciously. He’d actually nicked some lip balm from a chemist as they made their way from Switzerland to Germany.

In fact, John was so smitten with Sherlock Holmes that he was actively contemplating telling him. He’d never told anyone his secret. The only people who knew where his Mum, Dad and Sister. His Mum and Dad wouldn’t be telling anyone anytime soon, being that they had died when John was eighteen. His sister could feasibly tell someone, but the likelihood of anyone believing her was slim.

The only thing holding John back was the fear that Sherlock may turn him into the British government. He was an MI6 agent, for goodness sake. John had personally witnessed the level of dedication Sherlock seemed to have for his mission and his job. He was borderline fanatical. The other reason, John was reluctant to tell Sherlock the truth, was a fear of rejection.

What if, once Sherlock knew what he was, he wouldn’t like him anymore?

“John, we’re here. Stay close to me, and try not to talk to anyone if you can. Our first priority is to find Rosamund and take her out.” Sherlock nodded towards the door of the limo as their car pulled up to the red carpeted entrance of the theatre. John adjusted his shoulder holster under his jacket and ducked out of the car, stepping aside to allow Sherlock through behind him.

“I’ve got your back,” John muttered into Sherlock’s ear as he passed him. The two men posing for photos and making their way down the carpet towards the rest of the elite guests. They were posing as lesser known backbenchers from the UK lower house. No one would ask questions, no one would take much notice of them.

John kept scanning the crowd for Rosamund's familiar face, trying to pick her out by her walk or body shape. By the time Sherlock had spoken to six politicians and their dates it was time for them to take their seats for dinner. “No sign of her yet,” John muttered under his breath, taking a pretend sip of his champagne.

“There is still time, take a bathroom break in ten minutes and see if you can find her backstage. Message me as soon as you do. Don’t engage her without me, John.” Sherlock reached out for his hand and squeezed it. “Promise me. This can’t end like the what happened in Monaco.”

John rolled his eyes, “That was you, you berk. I shot the guy through the window if you remember, saving your life in the process. You were the one who ran off without me.”

“Irrelevant, we promised to work together.”

“I remember.” John met Sherlock’s eyes, and it was almost impossible for John to hold himself back from leaning forward to kiss the madman. “I promise, always your way.”

Sherlock smiled at John softly before turning his attention to the journalist who had taken the stage. John continued to watch Sherlock for a moment longer before returning to scan the room for their target. Neither man noticed they continued to hold hands.

“Bathroom,” John muttered into Sherlock’s ear after about fifteen minutes had passed. He made his way between tables, walking left and right trying to cover as much ground as possible. Wherever Rosamund was hiding it certainly wasn’t in plain sight. Ducking through a side door, John found himself in an empty hallway he looked around for a moment to get his bearings then made his way towards the stage entrance.

Sherlock was right, as always. John found Rosamund hiding backstage, up in the scaffolding above the stage. John hid amongst the curtains and sent off a quick message to his companion.

> _Stay there, I will join you - SH_
> 
> _I could set off the fire alarm, empty the building?_
> 
> _No - SH_
> 
> _Civilians?_
> 
> _Not yet - SH_
> 
> _Hurry, she’s moving._

“What is it with you and fire alarms?” Sherlock whispered as he pulled the curtain away from John’s hiding place. “Is that the only way you can think of to evacuate a building?”

“It’s the fastest way.”

“Maybe. I’d have to test it. Follow me.” Sherlock glanced up to where he could just make out Rosamund climbing over a railing to get into a better position. “I’m not a fan of climbing up there, she might see us. We need a better plan.”

“I could shoot her from here.” John offered, pulling his handgun from his holster. Together they made their way over to one of the access ladders up to the rigging above the stage, there were crosswalks at the top they could walk on at least.

“And alert every bodyguard in the theatre?” Sherlock whispered back at John, before reaching out for the ladder and starting to climb. “We’d never find her in the mass panic, same problem with your fire alarm idea.”

John watched Sherlock’s pert bottom sway left and right as he used each step of the ladder. “I have to say, Sherlock. I’m enjoying the view.”

Sherlock stopped climbing and glanced down at John below him on the ladder. “Now is not the time for your terrible flirting John.”

John chuckled and pulled himself up onto the crosswalk. They’d lost sight of Rosamund, that was bad news. Sherlock poked John in the chest and then pointed at himself then to the left, then at John and to the right. He wanted them to split up. John shook his head. Sherlock pointed again. John shook his head. Sherlock made a, _‘I want to scream at you, but I have to be quiet or we’ll be killed’_ expression and then stomped off down the left-hand crosswalk. John followed him.

Unfortunately, Rosamund found them first, and she wasn’t alone.

“Well, well, well… What a surprise to see you here Johnny.” Rosamund Moran stepped out from behind a flap of blackout curtain, her pistol pointed at Sherlock’s head. Before John could move he felt the cold press of a gun nozzle at the back of his head. “That’s my new man, Ajay. You were one of a kind Johnny, so very hard to replace. But I did my best, and Ajay here hasn’t ever missed a shot.”

“Give me the gun.” The man behind John said in a thick accent. “Or I shoot.”

John raised his arms, slowly and the man reached forward to take the gun from him. John glared at his ex-girlfriend, “You’re blond now? I don’t think it suits you. Personally, I like brunettes better.”

Rosamund laughed, “Blonds have more fun, I certainly have. How were those two years locked away in that cell Johnny? Did you get bored? Cold?” she tilted her head slightly almost like a bird of prey sizing up their next kill. “Perhaps that’s going a bit far. Have you _ever_ felt cold, John?”

“I’m sorry to break up this happy reunion, but do you really think John and I are working alone? Didn’t your boss tell you who I’m working for?” Sherlock interrupted, he’d shifted slightly closer to Rosamund while her focus had been on John. Clever man.

“I know you’re working alone, Sherlock Holmes. I wonder, how much would your brother pay in ransom for you? Maybe I’ll cut off some of your fingers, your hair too perhaps and mail it to him. Do you think he’d pay triple or quadruple digits?”

“You don’t know my brother well, then. You’d be waiting for nothing.” Sherlock shifted forward again. John just had to wait for the right moment, and then he could create a diversion. Distract Ajay and Rosamund then Sherlock could grab the gun out of the Assassins hands.

“Oh, I doubt that.” Rosamund looked away from Sherlock and back to John. “But maybe you’re right, maybe I should just kill you now Sherlock. I think Johnny has been free long enough. Holiday’s over Johnny. Come with me, or I will shoot your new boyfriend.”

“Now John!” Sherlock cried, launching himself at Rosamund. John wasted no time, the power coming easily to him now. It was always there just below the surface since his incarceration in the cold room. Fire leap from John’s hands and whooshed up the - apparently - highly flammable curtains. John twisted around, ducking as Ajay pulled the trigger and fired his gun up into the ceiling. With a swift kick, John swept Ajay’s legs out from under him and punched him soundly in the face. His nose cracked loudly on impact.

“Get off me!” Rosamund screamed, Sherlock was still fighting her. They were rolling around on the crosswalk, coming frighteningly close to the edge.

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock kicked out at the Assassin and managed to knock her gun out of her hand. It sailed over the railing and landed with a clatter on the stage below. The fire spread quickly, the curtains lighting up like dried grass. John took a deep breath and began to pull the flames back into himself, but he didn’t need to. The smoke set off the alarms and within seconds the theatre's sprinkler system started pouring water all over them.

John left the dying flames alone and made his way over to the two fighting on the ground. John caught one of Rosamund's legs, just below her ankle, as it flung up in the air for balance. She screamed as he touched her, his hands glowed white hot with heat and the smell of burning flesh was almost overwhelming.

“You bastard!” Rosamund yelled pulling a knife from her belt and stabbing Sherlock in the arm as he raised it to protect his face. “I’ll kill you! Both of you!”

Sherlock flinched backwards and quickly rolled away from the woman. Standing up and watching, in shock as John lost control of himself.

* * *

John was on fire. But it was different, he wasn’t burning up. His tuxedo was, the cheap synthetic fibres were melting and disintegrating into ash on his body.  His skin, however, remained untouched. The fire wasn’t coming from the curtains around them, the water that was still falling all over and around them had already extinguished that problem. No, this fire was coming from inside John.

Rosamund screamed louder, “Let me go! You’re burning me! John!”

“You bitch! You locked me up! You and your brother! Two years! You taunted me, suffocated me. Do you have any idea? Any idea what they did to me? Do you?” John yelled, his body now exposed, the fire had burned away everything. The twisting, crisscrossing scars that covered his entire body began to glow and crack like hot magma. John’s skin turned black, like coal, his voice deepened and became rough with emotion.

“You’re a freak!” Rosamund was trying to escape John’s hold on her leg, she was writhing in pain and trying to slash at John with her knife. The blade caught on John’s shoulder and instantly burst into flame, the metal of the knife melting. Rosamund flung it away with a shout.

“You did this, Rosie. You, Seb and Moriarty. You made me into this. I had control. I had a life. I want you to feel what I did, I want you to choke until you can’t breathe because there isn’t any oxygen in your lungs. I want your whole body to shake with cold. I want you to feel pain.”

“John!” Sherlock called, startling both himself and Rosamund. “Stop, you… You can’t. Let her go. Let me take her to Mycroft. _Don’t_ , don’t let your anger control you. I know, I know she hurt you.” Sherlock reached out for John but pulled his hand back with a hiss of pain. “ _Please, John._ You’re better than this.”

John turned to look back at him, his eyes were back to their glowing amber. The same they had been when Sherlock had first broken him out of his prison. Now it all made sense, why Moriarty had kept him locked up. Why John’s cell had been climate controlled. Why they had experimented on him.

This is what John was hiding from him. John was a fire elemental.

“You don’t understand, Sherlock.” John pleaded with him, “I need to hurt her, I need to.”

“No, no… John. You don’t. You’re not like them. You’re a kind, wonderful man.” Sherlock glanced down at Rosamund. Her leg was back and burnt up her knee now. She was gasping and panting in pain, no longer fully conscious of what was happening around her. “If you do this, you’re no better than they are.”

John stared at Sherlock for a moment before he threw Rosamund's ankle away from him. “Fuck! Fuck!”

“John! It’s going to be alright, I promise.” Sherlock took out his phone, “I’m calling Mycroft, just… Just don’t let her escape. And…” Sherlock put his phone to his ear, listening to the dial tone. He looked into John’s beautiful, sparkling eyes. He was amazing. The most amazing man Sherlock had ever met. “I-I-I won’t tell. John. You’re safe with me, please believe me.”

“My darling, Billy-boy. Please don’t make me spill my coffee.”

Sherlock had never been more happy to hear his brother's voice. “Mikey, code blue. Code blue. I need extraction now.”

“I’m sending a team, ETA ten minutes. Get yourself under control Sherlock.”

“Understood.” Sherlock ended the call and dropped the phone. “John! John, listen to me. You need to cool down. You’re still, _ah…_ On fire.” Sherlock wanted to reach out and touch John, but he couldn’t for fear of getting burned. John was taking huge, gasping breaths. He was on the verge of hyperventilating. “John, listen to my voice. Can you do that? Just focus on my voice, I want you to take a slow deep breath with me. Can you do that?”

John nodded. “Okay, breath in. Hold it, relax into it, let your shoulders drop. Now breath out slowly, one, two, three, four, five. Now breath in again, one, two, three, four, five. Good. You’re doing great.” Sherlock stepped closer to John, his skin was starting to lose its glow. “Fantastic, again. One, two, three, four, five. Let your shoulders relax, great, and out, one, two, three, four, five.”

John’s skin had returned to normal now, only his palms and eyes were still glowing with fire. Sherlock steeled himself and reached out, placing his hand on John’s shoulder. Turning him away from Rosamund's body and towards his own. “John, focus on me. Look at me.”

He was so warm like he was running a fever. “Sherlock?” John sounded confused.

“Yes, John it’s me. You’re safe. You’re with me. I’ve got you.” Sherlock cupped John’s face in his hands. He watched as John’s eyes lost their bright glow and slowly returned to their natural deep blue.

“Sherlock, you’re… I-I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have seen that.”

“It’s okay, John. I promise. I’m not going to tell anyone. You’re safe, I mean it.” The detective stroked his thumb over John’s cheek. John reached out for him and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist.

“I was… Going to tell you. After, after all this was over.” John smiled, “I should have trusted you.”

“It’s okay, I understand why you didn’t tell me.” Sherlock stepped closer, their chests pressed together.

“Sherlock…” John breathed as he leant forward and pressed his supernaturally warm lips against Sherlocks.

* * *

The next four hours were a blur if someone asked Sherlock what had happened after they kiss he wouldn’t be able to say. Mycroft's team arrived right on time and took Rosamund Moran away. Sherlock’s stab wound was treated and then John and he were escorted to a new safe house.

The moment the two stepped into their secured hotel room, the door closed firmly behind them they came together. Kissing roughly, tongues, teeth and hot breath passing between them. John’s warm hands were everywhere, rubbing over Sherlock’s back, his waist, his hips, _oh god,_ squeezing his arse.

“John!” Sherlock gasped, his back smacking against the wall of their room. John had moved away from his mouth and was sucking hot kisses onto Sherlock's neck.

“Ffff-uck…” John moaned, “You taste,” he bit lightly at Sherlock collar bone, “So good.”

“Ah!” Sherlock rolled his hips into John’s, causing sparks of pleasure rippled up his spine. “So-so… Hot! John!”

“Hmm… You like that, Sherlock?” John slipped his hands under Sherlock’s tuxedo’s previously white shirt. They were both covered in ash. John was wearing some grey track pants and a hospital gown that the paramedics had given him to wear. “You like having my hot hands all over your body?”

“Yes!” Sherlock keened, he was wet and cold from the sprinklers. John’s hands felt like heaven, Sherlock had always been a heat seeker. It was one of the reasons why he always wore his Belstaff back in London, even in summer.

“Fuck, you’re so, bloody sexy. Oh my god, your nipples. I need to taste them.” John gripped Sherlock’s shirt and pulled, the fabric gave way and several pearl buttons shot off in random directions about the room. Chest now exposed, John wasted no time taking one of Sherlock’s erect nipples into his mouth and sucking.

“Jaaaawwwwnnn!” Sherlock moaned, “Please! I need… _I want…_ ”

“Oh baby,” John smirked, pulling his mouth away from Sherlock’s chest and returning to kiss and lick at Sherlock’s mouth. His lips were already turning pink, and swelling from the stubble burn. “Been wanting to do this for weeks, _fuck_.”

“Want-wanted you… From the first-first,” Sherlock gasped, “Moment I saw you. In that cell.”

John growled, pulling at Sherlock’s jacket and tattered shirt. There was another ripping sound as John tore it from Sherlock and threw it somewhere over his shoulder. “Oh sweetheart, the things you say.”

Sherlock shuddered at the endearment, “John, I can’t.”

“I want to fill your mouth Sherlock, will you let me do that?” John pulled Sherlock away from the wall and the two stumbled blindly over to the bed.

“Yes! Please, John! I wan- _ugfff!_ ” Sherlock grunted as he fell on top of John on the bed. “Get that ghastly robe off, now. Or I won’t be putting anything in my mouth.”

“Oh! You naughty thing!” John purred, but quickly pulled the hospital gown over his head and wriggled out of the track pants. John had to force himself to focus on removing his own clothes when he hears the sound of Sherlock’s zipper and the telltale flop of the taller man's trousers landing on the floor beside the bed.

“You like my mouth, don’t you John?” Sherlock teased, using John’s own words against him. “I’ve seen you look, stare really. You can’t take your eyes off them when I talk. You’re obsessed.”

John groaned, loving the feeling of Sherlock pressing their naked bodies together. “Ffffuuuuckk! Sher- _OCK!_ ”

“Hmmm?” Sherlock hummed around the lobe of John’s ear, which he had just bitten.

“Shut up and suck my cock, you bastard!”

Sherlock chuckled, “ _Yessss_ , master.” The detective slid himself down John’s wonderfully hot body, he was deliciously warm. He’d be amazing to sleep next to, Sherlock could imagine it. Waking up, warm and cuddled together. John would be soft and sleepy, they’d share sloppy morning kisses for hours.

Sherlock nipped at John’s hip bone, sleepy, soft kisses were for later. Now, Sherlock wanted to taste John’s cock. With his right hand, Sherlock circled the base of John’s erection, lifting it up from his stomach, with a gentle stroke Sherlock pulled back John’s foreskin and pressed a few soft kisses on the exposed head.

“Oh my god… _Oh!_ Sherlock!” John’s hips were tilting and shifting, rocking in time with Sherlock’s soft kisses. “Yessss, you’re mouth, fuck. _So good._ Please, suck on it. Please.” Sherlock let the head of John’s cock slip slowly between his lips, the tip of his tongue dipping into the slit before he pulled up and away again.

“Christ, Sherlock… You… You…” John panted. Sherlock repeated the motion, again and again, taking a little bit more of John into his mouth each time. On the next downward movement, Sherlock swirled his tongue around the head of John’s cock, his mouth lingering and sucking softly has he pulled back up.

“Sherlock! Fuck! I’m gonna cum, stop. For fuck's sake. You’re too fucking good.” John pushed against Sherlock’s head. “Christ!”

Sherlock gave a deep throaty chuckle, “I like sucking cock, John.”

John’s eyes were almost entirely black, “Oh my… Sherlock are you real? Am I dreaming?”

“I am entirely real.”

* * *

 “You’re entirely too coherent,” John growled again, pulling Sherlock up so he could kiss those sinful lips again. “I want to be inside you Sherlock, will you let me?”

“Yessssss…” Sherlock hissed, “Oh God, John I _love_ anal sex. Please. _Please_.”

“You can’t be real. You’re too perfect.” John grasped Sherlock’s arse cheeks and pulled them apart, then squished them together again.

Sherlock placed his hand on John’s cheek, “I’m real, you’re safe. You’re here, with me.” John nodded, his eyes looking cloudy with tears. “We need lube if you are to penetrate me.”

John groaned, “Really? Penetrate you? You’re dirty talk need work.”

Sherlock pushed himself up and got up off of John. “What else would I say? That is what you’re going to do. Penetrate my arsehole with your penis.” He slipped into the bathroom for a moment, then returned with a brand new bottle of personal lubricant in hand.

“How about; We need lube so you can make make me all slick and wet for you.” John grinned up at Sherlock as he straddled his waist, his wonderful lush bottom sitting over his cock. John’s hands reached out automatically and squeezed Sherlock's arse cheeks again.

“Alright then,” Sherlock pulled one of John’s hands away from his arse and squirted a glob of lube onto his palm. “Make me all sick and wet for your cock, John. I want to ride you until I cum.”

John blinked stupidly up at Sherlock for a moment before he lifted his hips and bucked up into Sherlock, nearly tossing him from the bed. Sherlock overbalanced and fell forward onto his arms. John pulled him down the rest of the way so he could smash his mouth against Sherlock’s. “You…” John breaths between rough kisses, “Are a wet dream,” Sherlock gasped as John’s lube covered hand reached down, one supernaturally hot finger circling his arsehole. “Come to life.”

“John!”

“Yes, tell me, tell me what you like Sherlock.”

“Oh God, you’re so warm!” Sherlock shuddered.

“I can be warmer, do you want my hot, wet fingers inside you sweetheart?” John groaned, Sherlock, pushed his hips down and rubbed his cock into John’s tummy.

“Yes, _oh god John_ … Please, put your finger inside.” Sherlock breathed into John’s mouth, gasping softly every time John’s finger dipped shallowly into his hole. “I can cum on prostate stimulation alone.”

_“Fucking hell!”_

* * *

John had to be dreaming, it was the only explanation for the sequence of events over the last twelve hours. He’d not just told Sherlock about his powers, he’d given him a front row seat to the absolute worst of it and instead of turning him in or running away in fear. Here Sherlock was rocking into him, rubbing his naked body against him and John was two fingers deep into his arse, preparing the gorgeous posh boy for his cock.

“Another John, please. I’m ready.” Sherlock begged.

I’m in love with him. John realised, with a sudden jolt. It wasn’t just lust, or a crush, or a passing infatuation. Everything about Sherlock made John want him more, _everything_. His unwillingness to eat, unless John all but forced him, his stupidly long showers and even longer hair treatment routines. His ability to ignore John for hours on end busy inside his ‘Mind Palace’.

He was whipped, smitten, over the moon. Sherlock owned his heart now.

“John!” Sherlock gasped and pulled back from the wet kiss they’re been sharing. “Do you mean that?”

“Did I say that out loud?” John asked.

“Yes, you did. Did you mean it? Do I have your heart?”

John pulled Sherlock back down for another kiss, “Yes, darling, I love you. God, how could I not? You’re marvellous.”

“John, _oh, oh…_ ” Sherlock moaned, John had three fingers inside him now. Scissoring them and reaching deep inside for his darlings prostate. “I love you too. John, my John… My conductor of light.”

With a twist of his fingers, John pressed against the nub of Sherlock’s sweet spot. The curly haired brunette squeaked, then shuddered with pleasure and practically melted on top of John. Then the quiet moment between them was over, Sherlock was rutting into John’s stomach with determined movements. John was rubbing, twisting and stretching Sherlock’s arsehole with renewed dedication.

It didn’t take very long for Sherlock to pant heavily that he was ready, with another squirt of lube John’s cock was slicked and ready. The two shifted into a more comfortable position on the bed, Sherlock lifted himself up over John’s cock and began to lower himself down.

John held his erection up and rubbed it over Sherlock’s loosened hole. It caught on the edge, making both men moan before slipping inside. Sherlock pressed himself down slowly until his arse was flush with John’s groin.

“So…” John panted, “Are you gonna ride me?”

Sherlock flicked his hair back away from his eyes, they were both sweaty now. John was warmer than he’d been at the beginning, but he was conscious of keeping the power down. He couldn't risk accidentally channelling and burning Sherlock.

Sherlock smirked and pressed his hands onto John’s chest, moving his legs to gain purchase on the duvet. “Oh, you’ve no idea, John. I hope you like it rough.”

“Oh! Christ Sherlock!” John gasped as Sherlock lifted himself up, then dropped down onto John’s cock. It was delicious, Sherlock’s insides rippling and gripping his cock so tightly. “Yes, baby. _Ride me._ Make yourself cum. I wanna see you.”

Sherlock didn’t need telling twice, he rocked himself back and forth lifting himself up and down, shifting so John's cock would strike his prostate on every thrust. John helped by gripping the slim man's waist and thrusting up into Sherlock’s arse as he dropped down.

“John! John! John!” Sherlock chanted, his body gripping John tighter and tighter.

“Fuck! Sherlock, so good. Oh, sweetheart, you can cum. _Fuck!_ Cum on me Sherlock, I want you too.”

“Ah!” Sherlock gasped, his movements slowing down, he dropped down onto John’s cock and ground down. Pressing the head of John’s cock into his prostate. “FF-F- _Fuck!_ Gonna cum.” Sherlock groaned.

“Yes, baby. Cum for me. Cum.”

“John!” Sherlock screamed, his whole body shaking as his cock spurt hot semen between them.

“So good, so beautiful, good boy.” John praised, rocking his hips gently, feeling himself reach his peak just as Sherlock’s body slumped forward. John’s cock slipped out of Sherlock, splashing cum all over his abused hole.

* * *

John’s eyes snapped open at the feeling of a leather gloved hand covering his mouth and the scratch of a needle in his neck. He feels a bolt of fear shoot through his body when he recognises Sebastian's toothy smile in the darkness of their hotel room. John tries to reach for heat and fire. He wants to burn Sebastian, melt him into a puddle of human ash, but the drug the bastard injected into his veins is too strong. With a quiet grunt, John’s eyes roll into the back of his head and the world goes black.

* * *

Sherlock wakes slowly, his head is fuzzy and his muscles ache deliciously. He smiles to himself, feeling warm and comfortable in bed. A perfect morning after. He rolls over, sliding his hand over the mattress expecting to feel John’s superheated body. Sherlock remembers his fantasy of sleepy kisses and wants to start making that a reality as soon as possible.

Sherlock’s hand feels nothing but empty space, frowning he sits up and looks around the room. Details and information hit him like a sledge hammer. Their door had been forced open, two orange needle caps lay where they were dropped by Sherlock’s bedside. There is a burn mark that looks like someone slid a hot iron over the floor melting the carpet. Disturbingly Sherlock’s brain recognises the mark is similar to a blood stain when a murderer drags a bleeding body out of a room.

Someone had broken into their room last night, and they’d taken John.

Sherlock rushes over to his jacket which John had thrown across the room the night before. Hands shaking with panic, Sherlock quickly pulls up his contacts. It’s time he told Mycroft everything. Before he presses the ‘Call’ button, Sherlock’s phone pings with a message.

The notification banner appears at the top of the screen.

Mr.Sex: Come play, Alice. At the pool where little Carl died. Tonight.

* * *

Sherlock takes a deep, grounding breath before reaching out and pulling open the door to the main pool room. He hasn’t been back here since Carl was murdered and he was kicked out by the incompetent NSY officers. His eyes dart around the room as he lets the door close behind him with a soft click. He can see John and the flood of relief that washes over him is so powerful Sherlock struggles to stay on his feet.

He’s not dead. _Thank God._

But he is back in a glass cell, Sherlock is willing to bet John will not be happy about that. Sebastian has locked John in a special coffin like contraption which he has suspended over the pool. The water is obviously a failsafe, if John manages to heat up enough to melt the glass then the coffin will be dumped into the water. Which will flood the prison and John will drown.

Sherlock can assume that inside the glass coffin, there is little to no oxygen, making it almost impossible for John to ignite and the temperature inside would be freezing. Forcing John to waste his energy on keeping warm and not much else. Quite ingenious really, specifically designed to hold a person who can control fire.

“That’s far enough, my dear.”

“Moriarty.” Sherlock greets the shadow he can just make out on the other side of the pool.

James Moriarty slowly makes his way down the tiled floor towards Sherlock. He’s wearing a grey suit and appears to be of average height and build. Perhaps a little on the slim side. “Is that a British Browning L91A in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?”

Sherlock smirked, pulling John’s handgun from behind his back and aiming it at Moriarty. “It’s both, actually.”

“Afraid, I’ve come rather more prepared. Little Alice.” Moriarty says in his sing-song voice. Sherlock sees a flash of red from the corner of his eye and looks down, there is a red laser sight hovering over his heart. Well, that makes things rather more complicated, but it wasn’t unexpected.

“You see, Sherlock. I’m done playing games with you now. You’ve taken someone very dear to, not only myself but to my Sebastian. He loves his sister, you know. Families do.” Moriarty shrugs. “Sebastian wants revenge, but I can’t have him breaking my very special toy.” James gestures over at the glass coffin. John is starting to wake up, the drugs finally beginning to wear off. “He’s one of a kind, after all.”

Sherlock grips his gun tighter, “He’s certainly worth more than you.”

“Aye, he is. Indeed.” Moriarty watches as John struggles for a moment, realising he’s back inside a glass cell. His eyes blazing orange, yellow and red. Burning with hatred and barely contained power. John looks around and spots them standing beside the pool. He makes eye contact with Sherlock for a moment before looking into James’ eyes.

John clearly, slowly mouths the words: I will burn you.

“Oh isn’t be precious!” Moriarty giggles, “Oh Johnny boy, how I missed you.”

“Let him go. Or I will kill you.” Sherlock growls.

James laughs, “Silly little Alice, I didn’t bring you here to bargain with you. There is nothing you have that I want more than John Watson. I lured you here so Sebastian can avenge his sister. And I thought, how great would it be if Johnny boy got to watch as his true love was murdered in front of him. I think that would finally break him. _Don’t you?_ I think if you died here, while he was gasping for air and powerless to stop me he would finally crack. He could tell me the secret to his power. That’s what I want Sherlock.”

There was a cool draft blowing through one of the open windows above the pool. Probably where Sebastian had climbed inside, he’d be hidden up there like the sneaky sniper he was. Sherlock let his lungs fill with air until he couldn’t breathe in anymore, then he let it out slowly. He started again, breathing in, then out. He stared at Moriarty and the criminal stared right back.

“You think you know everything about me, but you don't. Not really. Because if you did, it wouldn't be John that you had locked up. _It would be me._ ” The pool abruptly filled with rushing wind, faster and faster it swirled around Sherlock. The wind lifted up debris from around the pool and slammed it into walls and pillars. John’s prison swayed dangerously back and forth as the wind pushed against it. The steel cables groaned under the load.

Sebastian fired twice at Sherlock, but the wind was too strong and the bullets were pushed off course. Moriarty gasped, he was standing in the centre of a tornado with Sherlock.

Sherlock’s eyes glowed bright silver, “Now do you understand James?”

“How…”

“I warned you.” Sherlock growled, “I said, let him go. Or I’ll kill you. You have chosen death, and I will give it to you.” The air elemental looked down at the gun in his hands, then threw it into the circling vortex of wind. It was carried, like magic through the storm to smash with tremendous force into John’s glass prison, shattering it and carrying the glass safely away from John.

Sherlock raised his hands and slowly made a fist, as his fingers pulled inwards towards his palm Moriarty grasped at his throat. “How?” James wheezed. “Y-ou?”

“Not so much fun when it’s you suffocating is it?”

“Sher…” Moriarty was turning gone blue, his mouth makings fish like gulping movements. The blood vessels in his eyes burst and he collapsed onto his knees.

“I control your breath now.” Sherlock watched as James Moriarty blacks out and crumples into a pile at his feet. The wind swirls to a stop, Sherlock lets out a long breath and turns to the open window. All the glass windows appear to have broken during the tornado he’d created. The detective could see Sebastian's limp hand handing over the railing.

“Sherlock!” John called. “What the fuck? You can channel too?”

“Oh yes, John.” Sherlock grinned lifting his arms up, creating a blade of compressed air that cuts the restraints tying John to his prison. “I meant to tell you, but we were otherwise occupied last night.”

John is carried down by a gentle gust of wind and the two lovers pull each other into a tight embrace. “Just... “ John squeezed him tighter, “Fuck it feels good to hold you. Just tell me one thing, Sherlock.”

“Anything John, I promise. No more secrets.”

“Does this mean you can fly?”

_**The End.** _


End file.
